


Breeding Lilacs

by ladyblahblah



Series: The Ivy Crown [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Jealousy, Kobayashi Maru, M/M, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain</em>.  Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/330329/chapters/533059"><em>Daffodil Time</em></a>, second in the <em>The Ivy Crown</em> series.  Six years later, Jim and Spock are living their separate lives.  No looking back; no regrets.  Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally uploading the first two chapters to AO3, as the new movie is on the verge of release and my Trek juices are likely to get flowing again soon. Now if I can just reconstruct the outline of the others that I lost in the Great Hard Drive Crash of '12 . . .
> 
> As this series is an alternate version of the XI timeline, dialogue from the rewritten scenes has been pulled directly from the movie script and is not mine. Title and summary are both taken from T.S. Eliot's _The Wasteland_. No claim or infringement is intended.

 

Unseasonable cold snap aside, replacing shingles on a roof is sweaty work.  Squinting against the bright sunlight, Jim Kirk sits back and takes a moment to mop at his face.  The sharp scent of late-mown hay stings his nose, and his gaze travels restively over fields painted green and gold in the slanting afternoon sun.  It’s been a dry summer, and golds and browns are edging out the green, but Mr. Clark assures him that the corn crop looks like it’ll fare just fine.  Jim’s glad to hear it: helping out at harvest time has been one of his few reliable sources of income over the past few years.

It’s getting on to evening by the time he finishes, and he climbs the ladder down from the roof to find Mr. Clark waiting at the bottom.

“Tell me you haven’t been standing there waiting for me all this time,” Jim grins, chuckling under his breath when Mr. Clark snorts.

“You think I’ve got nothing better to do than to stand around all day waiting to talk to you, son?  I heard the scraping and banging stop and figured you had to be either done or dead; either way I thought I ought to come and see what’s what.”

“It looks like the storm didn’t too much damage.”  Jim starts packing his tools back into the bag strapped to the back of his bike as he talks.  “I replaced the shingles that got blown off, but I’m not a professional, Mr. Clark; if there’s anything else wrong up there, you might still have some leaks.”

“Well, even if that’s so, it’ll still be a sight better than it was before.  Water dripping all over the damn place; kept me up half the night.  I appreciate you coming out and doing what you can.”

Jim shoots him a wry smile.  “I appreciate you sending the job my way; I can always use one.”

Mr. Clark scratches at his chin in an entirely ineffective show of nonchalance.  “Having trouble finding work, huh?”

“Not a lot of odd jobs that need doing right now.”  He glances at Mr. Clark, then away.  “Not by me, at least.”

“Yeah.”  The older man nods slowly.  “Well, from what I hear, a few people were a bit put off by that last stunt you pulled.”

Jim tosses the scraper into the bag with more force than strictly necessary.  “It wasn’t a stunt.  It’s my house.”

“Not right now it ain’t.”  Mr. Clark’s eyes are filled with something entirely too close to pity for Jim’s comfort.  “Now, I know you don’t like the idea of your mama renting it out, but so long as she does—”

“Look, it was all just a misunderstanding, okay?  I’d had a little too much to drink, and I wasn’t thinking.  Just ended up there on autopilot.”

“Scared the daylights out of that sweet little girl when you came stumbling into her room,” Mr. Clark says mildly.  Jim grits his teeth.

“I know that.  Look, I’m not some kind of sadistic bastard running around, looking for little girls to terrify,” Jim glowers.

“I know that, son,” Mr. Clark nods.

“It was an accident.”

“I’m not doubting you.  Still, seems you’re mighty accident-prone these days.”

Jim turns away, trying to ignore the hot, slippery ball of shame and disappointment lodged in his stomach.

“I’m just a screw-up.  No deeper meaning to it, Mr. Clark.”

“Aw, hell, Jim, you’re not a screw-up.  Just got yourself stuck in a bad place, that’s all.”  A large, friendly hand claps Jim on the shoulder.  “I’ve known you since you were just a squalling baby, boy, so don’t think you can fool me the way you can those folks in town.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone.”  Jim cinches the bag closed and ducks down to tighten the laces on his boots, letting Mr. Clark’s hand fall off of his shoulder.  He gives the laces a final tug and stands, throws a leg over his bike and settles on the seat.  “People change.”

“Sometimes, yeah.”  A glance at Mr. Clark’s face tells Jim he’s still unconvinced, but he seems willing to let the subject drop and Jim’s grateful to him for it.  “Say, why don’t you stick around for supper?  My night to cook, so you won’t have to suffer through Mary’s food, and there’s plenty to go around.”

Jim hesitates.  It’s a tempting offer: good food and a few hours of company with people who genuinely like him, even if he’s not quite sure why they do.  He hasn’t seen Mrs. Clark in a few weeks, either, and he’s been feeling guilty about sticking close to the house so he wouldn’t have to face her.  Still, he knows Mr. Clark wouldn’t have invited him without clearing it with her first, so she must not be too disappointed in him.

It’s a _very_ tempting offer.  Jim nearly says yes.

“I appreciate the invitation, but I’m pretty worn out.  Think I’m just gonna head home.”

“You sure?  We’re having my mama’s fried chicken tonight; that’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Jim grins.  “Maybe I can get a raincheck on the chicken?  Right now all I want is to scrape some of this dirt off and go to bed.”

“All right,” Mr. Clark says mildly, nodding slowly with his eyes focused on Jim’s.  “You do that.  I’ll save some for you tonight, so stop by for lunch tomorrow and we can talk about fixin’ some stuff around the house.  If you’re free.”

“I’m just going home, Mr. Clark.”  Jim starts up his bike, and the older man steps back.  “Don’t worry.”

“Boy,” Mr. Clark snorts, “you oughta know better than that.”  He lifts a hand in a wave, his eyes warm with affection and concern.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jim promises, and guns the engine as he drives away.

It’s a picturesque ride back to town, with the setting sun painting everything in bright gold and deep shadow, but Jim’s pressing his bike to its limits and it all passes in little more than a blur.  He really can’t afford another ticket—he’s an inch away from having his license revoked as it is—but he never can seem to resist the lure of the empty road and the adrenaline that promises to wash his thoughts clean.  Besides, he hacked the police database earlier this week, and according to the schedule for the enforcement drones, this particular stretch has a couple of unregulated hours in order to cover traffic coming out of the shipyard.  It might have changed in the past few days, he knows, but the small risk only makes the drive better.

The only problem with this particular joyride is that it’s over too soon.  In practically no time at all he’s at the city limits and cutting his speed back to normal, back on paved streets instead of the long, straight dirt road.  He parks his bike in front of his apartment and engages the gravity lock despite the fact that the odds of it being stolen are practically zero—Jim has pissed off enough of the wrong sort of people in the past few years to have learned a certain amount of caution.  With a final fond pat to the handlebars, he heads inside.

His apartment is just a couple of rooms above a hardware store that’s always on the verge of going out of business.  Still, he thinks grimly as he climbs the stairs, he’ll be lucky to be able to afford his rent this month if things don’t pick up.  

That last job for Bobby had been a stupid decision; Jim should’ve known it was too good to be true.  If he hadn’t gotten busted for possession of stolen property, the police probably would’ve been a little more understanding about the mix-up at his old house last month.  Now, with breaking and entering and trespassing added to his record, people seem less willing to overlook his previous drunk and disorderly convictions.  Mona had been apologetic about it, but she’d made it clear that he couldn’t keep working at the garage unless he cleaned up his act.  The odd jobs that give him a little extra spending money suddenly dried up around the same time.  With the fines he has to pay, he’s going to be struggling to make ends meet.

Jim opens the door, side-stepping around piles of books and tossing his keys on the cluttered table under the window.  He locks the door behind him and starts stripping out of his clothes on the way to the shower.  Working on the roof really has worn him out, and when he steps under the hot spray he lets out a groan that reverberates through the tiny bathroom.  He lets himself stand there for a minute, then two, just letting the hot water wash over him.  The warmth doesn’t last long, though—he needs to fiddle with the water heater again—and by the time he’s finished washing the water has started edging from lukewarm to cold.

Dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, rubbing a towel over his hair to help it dry, he makes soup on the stovetop mainly for the heat that soaks into him as he stands there.  The food itself is more of a formality than anything; as he eats he’s still thinking about Mr. Clark’s fried chicken, half-wishing he’d stayed for dinner after all.  With the dishes discarded in the sink, he settles onto the sofa with a beer and a PADD loaded with a hacked subscription to _Applied Particle Physics_.

It takes an hour, two beers, and the better part of an article about the newest warp drive technology before he tosses the PADD down.  He can’t concentrate.  His eyes flit briefly to the closest pile of books, the ones he picked up last week from a man too drunk to know the value of what he had.  Some irony in that, he thinks wryly, as he rises to grab another beer.  He passes more stacks of books on the way to the fridge, mounds of manuals and literature and at least three dozen volumes on battle tactics and military history.  None of it appeals.

There’s a buzzing beneath his skin, vibrations of energy trapped just beneath the surface.  Jim downs half the beer in one long pull, trying to drown the feeling.  Smother it.  It won’t work; he knows that.  It never does.

He promised Mr. Clark he’d stay in tonight.

Well.  It’s not like he’s a stranger to breaking his promises anymore.

One drink, he thinks.  That’s all he needs to bury this sense of restlessness: one drink out, and some company.

 _Bullshit_ , a quiet little voice in his head whispers.

That’s hardly new, either.

He’s dressed and out the door before he gives himself time to think better of it.  With three beers under his belt he knows better than to unlock his bike and climb on; he leaves his better judgement still prattling away on the sidewalk as he speeds off.

The bar is still quiet this early in the evening; in an hour or two the shift change at the shipyard will pack the place full, but for now Jim has the place almost entirely to himself.  That’s good; he can have his nice, quiet drink with the nice, quiet regulars and be back home in plenty of time.  No harm, no foul.

“Hey, Johnny.”  With his pick of seats, Jim slides onto the stool closest to the bartender.  “Whiskey, when you get a chance.”

“Jim.”  His friend doesn’t turn around immediately, and when he does it’s to fix him with a look of thinly-veiled reluctance.  “You’re here.”

“Just here for a quiet drink.”  Jim raises his eyebrows.  “Anytime you’re ready.”

“A quiet drink.  Right.”  Johnny’s face doesn’t change as he grabs a glass and begins to slowly wipe it out.  “Tonight.”

“Yes, a quiet drink tonight.  Why is that so hard to believe?”

“ _Jim_.”

“You know, the sooner you get me that whiskey the sooner I can get out of here.”

“Sure, sure.”  Johnny sets the glass down with a heavy _clink_ and pours a finger of whiskey in.  “You know, my shift’s almost over.  If you’re really just here for _a_ drink, why don’t we head out when Milos comes in?  It’s been a while since we hung out together.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Johnny.”

“Who said anything about a babysitter?  I’m just talking about—”

“You’re talking about getting me out of here before the shift change.”  Jim tosses back the whiskey in one swallow.  “I’m a big boy; I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, well, your arrest record says different.”

“Funny.”  Jim tosses the glass back down and gives it a nudge with his forefinger.  “Give me another.”

“I thought you were just here for the one drink.”

“I swear, you didn’t used to be this annoying.  Why are we friends again?”

“Because you need someone to watch your back.”  Johnny frowns, but he pours another finger of whiskey.  “And because I promised your mom—”

“Stop.”  Jim can practically feel his blood pressure rising as his fingers tighten around the glass.  He glances down; his knuckles are white.  _Deep breath, Jimmy_.  He knocks the second drink down as quickly as the first.  “You’ve done your duty, kept your promise.  Now give me another drink, and start me a tab, okay?”

“Jim—”

“Johnny, I wasn’t in the mood for a fight when I came in here, but I swear, if you don’t shut up—”

“Fine, fine.”  Johnny holds up his hands in surrender.  “But switch to beer for a while, will you?  And at least think about going home soon.”

“Whatever.  Just start that tab, will you?”

It’s amazing, Jim thinks as he spins his stool until his back is to the bar.  Johnny’s known him since they were kids and still hasn’t figured out that telling Jim not to do something only makes him want to dig his heels in.  He doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to keep his head down and his nose clean.  Doesn’t want to be alone.

That’s his problem, really: he’s never wanted to be alone.

Sipping at his beer gives him something to do as the room begins to gently spin.  He probably should’ve gone slower with the whiskey, he thinks wryly.  Care and caution aren’t his thing now, though, and haven’t been for a long time.  Everything’s better fast and dangerous.  Cars, money, booze.  Sex, he thinks, his eyes squinting slightly as he canvases the room.  _Especially_ sex.

The alcohol must have warped his sense of time, because the bar is already starting to fill up with people.  Most of them he knows.  Mechanics from the shipyard, mainly, along with a handful of other locals here for the same reason he is: the fresh-faced, excited, red-suited Starfleet cadets already filing into the room.

He was never going to stay away tonight.  He can admit it now, to himself at least, as he watches another boisterous group come in to join the first.  It’s been six years since he started doing this.  If he hasn’t stopped by now, he’s probably not going to.

There’s a blond in the corner who reminds Jim of the first time he came here, and he finds himself smiling almost nostalgically.  It’s a strange reaction, to say the least; the guy used him like a whore and tossed him away as soon as he was through with him.  That it had been what Jim was looking for when he walked into the bar that night—well, one of the things, anyway—hadn’t made it any easier.  Hadn’t made him feel less like trash.

Still, he muses, it might be interesting to try again.  He’s not seventeen anymore; he’s the one who’s older and more experienced now, the one who knows his way around a one-night stand.  By the time Jim was done with him, this kid would feel even worse about himself than he would about Jim.

Not what he’s looking for tonight, though.  That would be looking back, and Jim gave up on that a long time ago.

He notices her as soon as she comes in.  Impossible not to; she strides in like she owns the place, and if there’s a single pair of eyes that aren’t on her in that moment Jim will eat the empty glass in his hand.  Her long hair swings behind her as she moves, laughing, to a group of her friends.  Jim can almost feel that hair brushing over his skin, see those dark eyes flashing as he slips inside of her.  She’s beautiful, enticing, and obviously far too good for him.

Perfect.

She comes up to the bar almost immediately, which leaves Jim no time to come up with an opening line.  That won’t be a problem, though, he assures himself as he spins around and signals for another beer.  He does like to take things fast, after all.

“That’s a lot of drinks for one woman,” he says when she finishes placing her order.  Not his best attempt, or the best delivery, but he gives himself points at least for staying firmly on his barstool as he leans forward to peer at her.

She looks at him, looks _through_ him, and turns back to the bartender.  “And a shot of Jack, straight up.”

Damn.  She really _is_ his type.

“Make that two,” Jim says quickly.  “Her shot’s on me.”

“Her shot’s on her,” she corrects immediately.  Mission accomplished, though; she can’t just settle for ignoring him, now.  She gives him a smile that’s cool, but surprisingly sweet.  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Don’t you at least want to know my name before you completely reject me?”  

He knows the answer already, of course, but it’s all part of the game.  After all, the morning after won’t be nearly as much fun if she doesn’t sort of despise him from the beginning.  And sure enough, though she laughs, the look on her face is already edging quickly towards frustrated annoyance.

“I’m fine without it,” she assures him.

“You _are_ fine without it.”

Well, if that doesn’t fix him firmly in her mind as a drunken, pathetic loser, he doesn’t know what will.  He takes a quick drink, toasting himself with an ironic twist of a smile.  _To accurate first impressions_.

“It’s Jim, Jim Kirk,” he offers anyway.  He waits a beat.  Two.  Three.  She’s pointedly ignoring him again, staring down at the bar.  There’s no flash of recognition, no moment of realization.  Well, isn’t _that_ interesting?  It’s been a while since a Starfleet cadet hasn’t acted at least a _little_ star-struck at the mention of his name.  Just when he was thinking she couldn’t possibly be any more perfect.  “If you don’t tell me your name,” he says to cover for his obvious waiting, “I’m gonna have to make one up.”

Jim looks over at her again, pleased to see that she’s smiling.  She might think he’s obnoxious, but at least she’s not flat-out shutting him down.  Her head lifts as she has a silent but obvious argument with her better judgement, and Jim can practically taste his victory already.

“It’s Uhura,” she finally says, and Jim’s nearly flying as he falls into the rhythm of the game.

“ _Uhura_ , no way, that’s the name I was gonna make up for you!  ‘Uhura’ . . . what?”

“Just Uhura,” she assures him.

“They don’t have last names on your world?”

“Uhura _is_ my last name,” she smirks.

“Well then,” Jim fumbles, “they don’t have . . . first names on your world?”

She laughs, but otherwise doesn’t respond.  Time to advance.  He gets up on reasonably steady legs, grabbing his drink as he goes.

“So,” he says, coming up behind her and into the empty space next to her.  “You’re a cadet, you’re studying . . .”  He leans his elbow on the bar, close enough to press into her personal space without being threatening.  “What’s your focus?”  As questions go, it’s fairly trite, but all he’s really looking to do is keep her talking.

“Xenolinguistics,” she says immediately, more than a hint of dismissal in her voice.  Sure enough, the look she shoots his way is almost bored.  “You have no idea what that means.”

“The study of alien languages, morphology, phenology, syntax,” he rattles off, feeling justifiably smug when she turns to face him more fully, surprise and reluctant interest blooming over her face.  He looks straight into her eyes.  “It means you’ve got a talented tongue.”

She smiles.  “I’m impressed,” she says, her voice pitched just a touch lower than before.  “For a moment there I thought you were just a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals.”

The verbal blow, the cool rejection that’s reached her eyes by the time she finishes—they’d be lowering if he weren’t already expecting them.  Counting on them, almost.  This girl really is something new: she’s a challenge.  It’s been ages since he’d had to truly work to get someone to use him.

“Well.”  He lets her see him considering for a moment.  “Not _only_.”

Her laughter at that is genuine; it’s as good a sign as the fact that she’s still trading barbs with him at all.  He’s about to follow up with another offer to buy her a drink—or, failing that, to let _her_ buy one for _him_ —when something looms up behind him.

“This townie isn’t bothering you, right?”

“Oh, beyond belief,” Uhura laughs.  “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“You _could_ handle me, if that’s an invitation,” Jim offers, enjoying the way her eyes sparkle over the shot glass she’s picked up.

“Hey.  You better mind your manners.”

Jim spares a glance for the would-be knight in shining armor.  Big, but not too bright, is his immediate impression.  Not, all in all, the kind of person worth provoking if you have any kind of sense.  Unfortunately, what Jim has at the moment is a bloodstream full of alcohol and the vague, restless itch beneath his skin that hasn’t left him alone all night, and his mouth is moving before his brain can quite catch up.

“Relax, Cupcake,” he says dismissively, patting the guy clumsily on the shoulder before he turns back to the girl.  He wants this clown gone so he can get on with convincing Cadet Uhura to spend her evening slumming back at his place.  “It was a joke.”

“Hey, _farmboy_.”  A massive hand clamps onto his shoulder and spins him back around.  “Maybe you can’t count, but there are four of us and one of you.”

Sure enough, Jim can see over the gorilla’s shoulder that three more upstanding-looking red-clad gentlemen have stepped up.  There’s no way this is going to end well.

Not if Jim has anything to say about it.

“So get some more guys, and then it’ll be an even fight.”  He smirks, pats the idiot on the cheek, and turns away.

It’s his other arm that’s grabbed this time, and though he knows the fist is coming it’s faster than he’d expected, and there’s really nothing he can do to stop it from connecting with his face.

Not as good as getting laid, he thinks as he folds over the bar, blinking to try to clear the spots from his vision and rotating his jaw to make sure it isn’t broken.  Not _nearly_ as good.  But it’ll do.

When he turns, he lands a kick to the cadet’s solar plexus before the man can wind up for another punch, and the guy goes flying back to crash into a table.  He slides onto the floor, followed by a cascade of half-empty glasses.  That’s when everything starts to go to shit.

Jim is hardly a stranger to bar fights, or to brawls in general, come to that.  This isn’t the first time he’s been outnumbered.  Hell, it’s not even the first time he’s been outnumbered by Starfleet cadets, in this very bar.  He likes to think he would’ve been all right; he’s capable of holding his own, even when he’s still mostly hammered.  But the very thing that makes brawls like these so exciting is what makes them so dangerous: they’re about luck almost more than they’re about skill.  He’s doing all right until a blow sends him reeling back towards the bar, where No-First-Name Uhura is shouting for her fellow cadets to stop but has yet to find the good sense to move out of the way.

In retrospect, he realizes he probably shouldn’t have leered quite that openly when he realized he’d caught himself by grabbing her boobs.  In his defense, though, they _are_ fairly spectacular.

She doesn’t seem inclined to take it as a compliment, though, and her concern turns quickly to outrage before she shoves him away from her and back into the fray.  His luck runs out, then; one of the cadets catches him, and the man’s punch spins him into another one of the remaining three.  Jim’s arms are pinned before he has time to react, holding him in place while the last cadet’s fist crashes hard into his face.

It’s a bit of a blur after that.  Jim gets loose; he’s caught again; he’s on the ground, marveling at how the sparks behind his eyes are gleaming amidst the shards of broken glass that litter the floor.  The he’s airborne, hauled up, sent flying, and he can feel the jolt in his teeth when his back hits the table.  There’s a sneering quip on the tip of his tongue that if they wanted it rough all they had to do was ask, but another solid fist smashed into his mouth before it can open.  Blow after blow after blow, until he really starts to wonder if this is how he’s going to die, after all, and a part of him is holding its breath in anticipation when—

The whistle that pierces the air is worse than another punch.  It spears into Jim’s brain, hurting so badly that it actually takes him a second to realize that there hasn’t been another punch.  There’s blessed, beautiful silence for a moment.  Then the hand that Jim hadn’t even realized was holding him up lets go, and he falls back onto the table.

“Outside, all of you.  _Now_.”

Hell of a voice, that, Jim manages to think.  He’d be up and out the door himself if he could manage to move.

“You all right, son?”  

Between being upside down and the crowd of cadets hustling out of the bar like frightened sheep, it’s hard for Jim to make out much about the man beyond a hazy impression of _gray_ and _tall_ and one thought of singular importance.

“You can whistle really loud, you know that?”

He thinks he passes out after that; must have done, since the next thing he knows he’s got an arm slung over Milos’s shoulder as he’s manhandled into a chair at one of the tables that isn’t covered with blood and bits of broken glass.  The bar has pretty much emptied out, too, aside from the handful of people cleaning up.  It looks worse empty like this; he hadn’t realized how much damage they’d managed to do.  He doesn’t hear any sirens, though, so he supposes that’s something.

Jim is too busy finding napkins to deal with the blood gushing from his nose—broken again, damn it—to notice where the beer comes from, but when he sees it sitting in front of him he drinks without question.  His head hurts like a bitch.  Pretty much all of him does, actually.  From his scalp to his toes feels like one giant bruise, which he’s willing to bet probably isn’t all that far from the truth.  He’ll need another couple of drinks before he can ignore the pain well enough to make his way home.

As he takes another pull from the glass, he spots a streak of gray out of the corner of his eye.  Well.  That explains the lack of cops, at least.  Somehow, though, the fact that this seems to have become a purely military affair is less than comforting.

“Well.”  That voice comes up from behind him, and a moment later the officer is settling into the chair across the table.  He looks fatherly, Jim thinks.  Like he’s trying to put Jim at his ease.  “You should know that the cadets involved in tonight’s altercation won’t be pressing charges against you.”

“Really?”  Jim lets his eyebrows wing up despite the fact that the move stretches what feels like dozens of cuts all over his face.  “The four Starfleet cadets who assaulted me in front of a room full of witnesses—in  uniform, no less—have decided not to press charges against _me_?”  He smirks and raises his glass in a mocking toast.  “It must be my lucky day.”

“Something like that.”  The man hardly seems fazed by Jim’s attitude; he just keeps staring at him with look of calm benevolence.  It’s a little unsettling.

“Great.  Glad to hear it.”  Jim lifts his glass, sets it back down again without taking a drink.  “Look, am I being held, or anything?  Because if this is an official inquiry, I’ve gotta say the setting is a little—”

“You’re not being held.  You’re free to leave, anytime you want.”  There’s a small smile playing around the man’s mouth that makes Jim uncomfortable.  It makes him feel like there’s something he’s missing, some joke he’s not being let in on.  The man holds out his hand.  “I’m Captain Christopher Pike.”

Jim stares at the extended hand for a moment.  “Good for you,” he mutters, and takes another quick swallow of his beer.

“You know, I couldn’t believe it when the bartender told me who you are,” Pike says with a chuckle.

“Who am I, Captain Pike?” Jim asks, more concerned with the last half-inch of beer in his glass than with whatever bullshit he’s going to be offered to keep him from going to the news services with his story of what happened tonight.  All he wants is to nurse himself back to ambulation, go home, and pass out for a few hours.

“Your father’s son.”

It’s not what Jim was expecting, and he’s far too drunk to deal with the tangle of emotions that those three simple words call up.  Or maybe he’s not drunk enough.

“Can I get another one?” he calls over his shoulder, holding up his glass.

“For my dissertation I was assigned the U.S.S. Kelvin.”  From the tone of his voice, Captain Pike might be discussing weather patterns on Altair IV.  When Jim chances a look at him, though, he finds those blue eyes fixed firmly on him, and there’s nothing casual at all about that look.  “There’s something I admired about your dad,” Pike says.  “He didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.”

And hell, Jim can’t help but scoff at that as he pulls the blood-soaked tissues from his nose.

“Sure learned his lesson.”

“Well, that depends on how you define winning.  You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Thanks,” Jim mutters when one of the waitresses deposits another bottle of beer on the table in front of him.  

And yeah, he can’t argue with the fact that he’s there.  He’s alive, and bleeding, and isn’t that just fucking grand?

“You know, that instinct, to leap without looking, that was his nature, too.  And in my opinion, it’s something Starfleet’s lost.”

“Why are you talking to me, man?”

“‘Cause I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor.”  

An unexpected burst of shame hits Jim at that.  It’s been years since he’d really cared about disappointing someone, much less someone he’d met all of five minutes ago.  It’s not like he doesn’t already know that he’s never going to measure up to George Kirk, anyway.

“Your aptitude tests are off the charts,” Pike continues, “so what is it?  You _like_ being the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest?”

“Maybe I love it.”

“Look.  So your dad dies; you can settle for a less-than-ordinary life.  Or do you feel like you were meant for something better?”  Jim can’t look away from those eyes, the gaze that’s holding his like it’s magnetized.  “Something special?”

The words are swimming inside his head, fuzzing his thoughts as much as the alcohol.  The idea of another life; the life he’d chased after, once upon a time.  It’s tempting.  It’s actually very—

“Enlist in Starfleet.”

“Enli—”  The sentence is like a bucket of cold water, shocking Jim back to reality, and he laughs.  It’s comical, it really is, the idea of the bruised, bloody, drunken mess sitting in this bar tonight as a sworn representative of the Federation.  “You guys must be _really_ down in your recruiting quota for the month.”

“If you’re half the man your father was, Jim, Starfleet could use you.  You could be an officer in four years.  You can have your own ship in _eight_.”  The pang he feels in his chest at that is deeper, and he knows it shows this time, but Pike isn’t pulling back at all.  “You understand what the Federation _is_ , don’t you?  It’s _important_.  It’s a peace-keeping and humanitarian armada—”

“We done?” Jim demands.

Pike really does look disappointed, now.  Like he’d expected better.  Shows what he knows.

“I’m done.”  

He stands to leave, and Jim’s glad, glad to have him leave and take his hope and his faith and his promise of a better, brighter future with him.

“Riverside Shipyard.  Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow, 0800.”

Jim salutes with his glass again.  He can still feel the older man’s eyes, staring down at him.  They were staring down at him even when they were both seated; how the hell did the guy manage that, Jim wonders?  Doesn’t matter.  He’ll be back to his own life soon enough.

“Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes.  He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother’s.  And yours.”

The words sear into him, into the heart of him.

“I dare you to do better.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Forward shields are at ten percent, Captain.  We can’t take another hit.”  
  
“Divert all available power, reinforce them all you can.  Hail the _Kobayashi Maru_ again.”  
  
“No answer, Captain . . . their life-support system is offline.  Sir, I don’t think there’s anyone left to answer our hails.”  
  
“Damn it.  _Damn it_.  Helm, are we ready?”  
  
“Ready, sir.”  
  
“On my mark.  Head for the ship, full impulse power.  Ready—”  
  
“Sir, the other two Klingon ships are targeting us again!”  
  
“Hold steady . . .”  
  
“Sir, if we take another hit we won’t be able to—”  
  
“GO!”  
  
“Aye, sir.  Full impulse power—”  
  
Red lights flash and klaxons blare as every console goes abruptly dark.  It’s only five seconds before the light returns to normal and the klaxons die out, leaving the young man in the center seat still flushed and cursing.  
  
“Son of a _bitch_.  What happened?  What the _hell_ happened?”  
  
“Your language is inappropriate, Cadet.”  Commander Veillon appears unfazed by the furious expression on Cadet Andrews’s face as he turns to glare up at the observation windows.  “And the exam is over.  Please see your advisor tomorrow for your final grade and a detailed review of your performance.  This marks the last test for today; you are all dismissed.”  
  
Commander Reade crosses his arms over his chest as the cadets all begin filing out of the control room, as well as the testing room below.  “Quite a temper that one has.  Should we start on the paperwork right away?”  
  
“Yeah.”  Veillon straightens away from the intercom and turns, a wry look on her face.  “What’s the official phrasing for ‘uncontrolled, self-important jackass’?”  
  
Reade snorts, his shoulders loosening just a hair; Commander Veillon tends to have that effect on him.  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.  Think he was going for a suicide scenario?”  
  
“That would seem to be in little doubt,” Spock says.  He watches as Cadet Andrews, the last one to leave, sends one last resentful glance at the center seat and walks out, shoulders hunched and tense.  “It is hardly an uncommon choice, given the limited number of options that the scenario provides.  However, his delay in putting his plan into action is somewhat troubling.”  
  
“Showboating,” Veillon says dismissively, swinging out a chair and dropping into it with a weary sigh.  “He was looking to be another _Kelvin_ moment for the history books, and his flair for the dramatic was what let that disabled ship get below him to take him out.”  
  
“Too focused on the _Kobayashi Maru_ ,” Reade agrees.  “He let himself get distracted from the rest of the mission.”  
  
“Failing grade.”  Veillon pulls out a PADD and begins making notes.  “Surprise, surprise.”  She glances up.  “We’ll need a consensus on our recommendation, though.  Lieutenant?”  
  
Spock lifts an eyebrow.  “You are asking for my opinion, Commander?”  
  
“You _did_ design the program.  And you’ve seen a dozen of these so far; I think you’re qualified to give an educated opinion, aren’t you?”  
  
“You’d better be,” Reade puts in.  “You’ll be part of the official review board in a few weeks, after all.  C’mon, let’s hear it.”  
  
“Very well.”  Spock links his hands behind his back and considers for a moment.  “Cadet Andrews exhausted every possibility for rescue before determining on the destruction of both Federation ships as his final course of action.”  He tilts his head, gazing down at the empty room below as the test replays itself in his mind.  “That determination itself is neither terribly original nor truly cause for concern.  However, as Commander Veillon said, his flair for the dramatic is problematic.  He is arrogant; far more so than his academic record would seem to justify.  His overestimation of his own worth led him to make dangerous and foolhardy decisions, ones which not only resulted in the death of his entire crew, but also allowed two Federation vessels to fall into enemy hands.”  
  
When he turns back, both of the other officers are watching him with expressions somewhere between surprise and amusement.  
  
“Recommendation, Lieutenant?” Veillon asks.  
  
“I believe that Cadet Andrews is unfit for command,” Spock answers tersely, gratified when she and Reade both nod.  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
“Same here.”  Reade shakes his head and reaches for his own PADD.  “The kid’s got decent aptitude scores in astronomy and astrophysics.  Recommended for the science track?”  
  
“Sounds good.  I’ll write up the report and send it out.”  Veillon makes a few more notations on her PADD and shuts it off, rising from the chair as she does so.  “Closer and closer to my last one,” she grins.  “Thank god.”  
  
“When do you ship out?” Reade asks.  
  
“Wednesday, right after the last test, so you’ll have to handle the write-up for that one.”  She glances at Spock.  “Or I suppose you could, Lieutenant.  Your official promotion’s really just a formality.  Assuming you don’t get busted for a major crime or anything, you’re pretty much a lock.”  
  
“I have no intention of committing a crime of any sort,” he assures her, and she blinks back at him.  
  
“No, I . . . I’m sure you’re not.”  She smiles and nods before turning back to Reade.  “My going-away surprise party is tomorrow.  I know it’s short notice, but can you and Anna make it?”  
  
“Not gonna be much of a surprise if you’re the one inviting people,” Reade says dryly.  
  
“Yeah, well, Zahra can’t keep a secret to save her life; she let it slip three days ago.  Don’t worry, I promise I’ll act surprised.”  They start for the door, but Veillon pauses to glance back at Spock.  “Lieutenant, you’re welcome to come, too, if you’d like.  Drinks, dinner if we can bother to find the time to actually eat something.”  
  
“No, thank you,” Spock says.  “I do not care for alcohol.”  
  
“Right.  Well.  If you change your mind, we’re meeting at eight o’clock at _Far Horizon_.”  
  
Interesting, Spock thinks as the other two make their way out ahead of him, still chatting as they walk.  After working together for nearly a full month, Commander Veillon still continues to offer him invitations with remarkable frequency, regardless of the fact that Spock has declined every one of them to date.    
  
His original theory that her attempts at social engagement might stem from an attraction on her part had been quickly discarded, as her behavior does not fit any of his previous experiences of expressed human sexual interest.  She does not behave as though she is seeking a sexual relationship; unfortunately, that leaves Spock at something of a loss to explain her actions.  
  
In truth, her overtures _do_ seem somehow familiar, though he can not quite determine why.  Certainly few enough people have treated him so familiarly.  His disposition discourages that even if his genealogy were not enough.  No one, in fact, has ever behaved as if he were so . . . Human.  No one since—  
  
Spock spins on his heel and collects his bag, carefully tucking his PADD inside.  Nothing productive lies down that particular line of thought, he reminds himself.  It is illogical to dwell in the past; his attention belongs fully in the present.  
  
Though he had been given the opportunity to move off-campus when promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Spock had not seen any reason to do so.  He was installed instead in private quarters in the portion of the Academy dormitories referred to as “officers’ country”, and it’s there he heads now.  It is a pleasantly efficient arrangement, he reflects.  Everything he might need is provided within easy walking distance; he can reach anywhere on the campus grounds within ten minutes; his fellow officers respect his desire for privacy and his disinclination for socialization.  
  
Of all the personnel he interacts with, in fact, Commander Veillon is the only one who has extended more than a single, perfunctory invitation to him.  
  
More than interesting, really.  Fascinating.  
  
As his Friday schedule dictates, the first thing Spock does after changing out of his uniform is clean his quarters.  The bathroom is largely self-cleaning, and he has always been inclined to pick up after himself, so there is little enough for him to do.  Once he has scrubbed and swept to his satisfaction, he retrieves his mat and fire pot and settles in for his meditation.  On Vulcan, daily meditation was wise; here, surrounded by species almost universally less controlled and less likely to have effective mental shields, it is vital.  
  
With his body already at ease, the flame draws him inward almost immediately.  He checks the basic structure of his mind first, analyzing his shields for weaknesses and shoring them up where necessary.  The familiarity of the ritual is calming.  Spock relaxes further, and slips deeper into his own mind.  
  
The most important of his links are the next to be checked.  The bond to T’Pring remains unchanged, as it has since its creation.  In truth, at this point in his life he would be shocked to discover any difference in it at all.  What does surprise him—what _continues_ to surprise him, he should say—is that his parental links remain unchanged as well.  His father’s remains solid but uninviting, his mother’s fragile but open.  As ever, he is unsure what he expects that he does not find, but that they remain just as they have been all his life seems incomprehensible to him.  
  
A sense of emptiness, of cold, draws him on, and perhaps he _does_ know what he expects, after all: this, the phantom ache of an deadened limb, never amputated, never fully healed.  In the landscape of his mind he stretches out his fingers, brushing the barest tips of them against an icy metal door.  The contact is so cold it burns, and Spock quickly withdraws.  
  
He has considered, many times, having the link severed.  He has no doubt that it would already have been done, had a Human mind been capable of such an act.  And though—quite clearly—it was not, a trained mind-Healer certainly would be.  It would, however, mean a return to Vulcan, something that he has not been willing to consider for several years.  Still, should he determine that severing this link is truly necessary, it would be possible.  Has been possible for the past six years.  He only has to return home.  
  
Home.  
  
The memory, when it comes, is too swift and strong to fight.    
  
 _Warmth is the first sensation that registers; dry, penetrating warmth, cool for Vulcan but more heat than he has been able to find in all of his time on Earth.  
  
“Explain your actions, Spock.”  Sarek’s face is as emotionless as ever, but his voice holds a steely note that Spock has never heard before.  “Why have you rejected the council’s invitation?”  
  
“Did you not hear what was said, Father?”  Spock glances towards his mother, reluctant to speak words that will cause her pain.  “They classified my heritage as a _ disadvantage _.”  
  
“Irrelevant.”  Sarek turns away, pacing to the window and staring out.  “The opinion of others—”  
  
“It is, of course,” Spock interrupts, “their right to believe and behave as they will.  However, it is my right to decline to spend the remainder of my academic career laboring under the same narrow-minded condescension that has been directed towards me all my life.”  
  
When Sarek turns back, Spock is nearly rocked back by the faint line between his brows, the only sign of an emotional reaction that he has ever witnessed in his father.  
  
“Do you believe that you will fare better at Starfleet Academy?  Few other species are capable of fully understanding and accepting Vulcan culture; you will not find the welcoming acceptance there that you seem to expect.”  He lifts an eyebrow.  “Or have you decided to abandon the Vulcan way entirely?  Will you live as a Human there, Spock?  Is that your plan?”  
  
“Sarek.”  Spock bites back the words that want to form as his mother steps forward.  “There’s no need to take his decision as an insult.”  
  
“His behavior today _ was _an insult.”  Sarek gazes at him, searching Spock’s face.  “Perhaps it was not intended as such.  Spock, you have become . . . willful, of late.  Though it may be causing no physical or mental damage, I believe that you have become emotionally compromised by your link with—”  
  
“This has nothing to do with—”  
  
“It would, perhaps, be in your best interest to sever—”  
  
“_ NO _.”  
  
Silence stretches between the three of them, filled only with the sounds of Spock’s labored breathing; he had not noticed that his breath was coming shortly until he heard it.  
  
“Very well,” Sarek says quietly, at last.  “You are grown, and your decisions are yours to make.  And it is my decision that I will not support you in pursuing a path that I believe to be detrimental to your wellbeing.  You may keep your link; you may attend Starfleet Academy, if that is your choice.  But you will do so on your own.  The choice is yours, Spock: to stand with your family, or to stand alone.”_  
  
Spock manages to open his eyes at last, pulling himself free only with a great deal of effort.  It has been some time since he last examined the memory, and the power of it has caught him off-guard.  When he is once more certain of his control, he slips back into a light trance; the recollection of his last encounter with his parents has shaken him enough to weaken the holds he maintains over his emotions.  It takes an additional fifteen minutes to reinforce them to his satisfaction.  
  
The schism with his parents was unfortunate, he reflects when he has regained his calm.  Ironic that the very cause of it—namely, his insistence on maintaining the link that has now been closed off for years—is something that he has only been able to recognize as illogical after a protracted stay on Earth.  It has been that experience that has shown him his error.  The great majority of Human bonds are, he has observed, uncertain and transient at best.  Though they may, in rare cases, be both capable and willing to sustain a mental and emotional connection of such strength, that capacity is certainly not to be expected as the norm.  
  
He will, he thinks, consider the possibility of severing the link more fully at another time.  It is not a decision to be rushed into, given the inherent dangers.  Even a blocked link can cause damage if it is sundered incorrectly.  It is wisest to proceed with caution.  
  
Spock stands, stretches, and moves to his desk.  He has preparations to make for the new term, lesson plans to finalize and class lists to approve.  There is always a long list of things requiring his attention here at the Academy; it is quite a satisfying arrangement.  
  
Before he can begin to work, however, the blinking icon at the bottom of his station screen attracts his attention.  Someone must have attempted to call in while he was meditating.  Normally the sound of an incoming communication is enough to pull him back into the outside world, but he does not recall hearing anything at all.  He must have been even more deeply enmeshed in his memory than he had realized.  That is surprising, but not particularly worrying.  He will be careful not to allow it to happen again.  
  
Selecting the alert icon calls up a text communique rather than a video message, and Spock knows without looking at the signature that it will be from Captain Pike.  Not only would no one else attempt to contact him at this late an hour, no one else of Spock’s acquaintance shares the captain’s idiosyncratic distaste for leaving messages as anything but written alerts.    
  
There are only two lines to the message: a simple request for Spock to contact him as soon as possible.  As none of his pending work is more pressing than answering his commanding officer, Spock wastes no time in connecting to Captain Pike’s dedicated Starfleet line.  
  
“Spock.”  The screen blinks, and Pike’s face appears.  The strange mix of emotions in his expression are almost dizzying; Spock does not even attempt to identify them.  “I’m glad I caught you tonight.”  
  
“My apologies for not answering earlier; I was meditating, and I did not hear the hail.”  
  
“No need to apologize, Spock; you’re off-duty.”  
  
“A Starfleet officer is never truly off-duty, sir.”  
  
“Now if only everyone understood that,” Pike says dryly.  “I was calling to let you know that we’re going to have to reschedule tomorrow’s meeting; I have a whole class of Operations cadets to discipline, and it’s gonna eat up most of my time for a few days.”  
  
Spock lifts an eyebrow.  “Sir?”  
  
Pike sighs, rubbing at his forehead with his fingertips.  “There was a bit of an incident here.  The _Enterprise_ is nearing completion, and I think it got the cadets a little riled up.  They ended up at a local bar, every last damned one of them still in uniform, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, four of them wound up starting a violent altercation with a civilian.”  
  
“Those are serious charges,” Spock notes, his brows close to furrowed now.  “How will you be handling the situation?”  
  
“I haven’t decided yet,” Pike admits, “beyond sending them back along with the new recruits.  A cramped, uncomfortable shuttle ride isn’t going to cut it as a punishment, but one thing I’m going to have drilled into their heads by the end of this is that they’re each and every one of them in this together.  The public isn’t going to differentiate between participants and bystanders if and when this story gets out.  Either Starfleet stands together or we fall apart; that starts with our cadets, and it’s time they learned that.”  
  
“If I can be of any assistance,” Spock offers, and Pike nods.  
  
“I’ll let you know.  In the meantime, try to find another day for the meeting.  I’ve already talked to Number One; she has my schedule, so you can coordinate with her and find something that’ll work for all three of us.”  
  
“Understood.”  Spock makes a note of it on his PADD.  “Sir.”  He hesitates before asking his next question, aware that his interest is . . . unofficial, at best.  “Do you believe that the civilian who was involved in the altercation likely to press charges?  If so, I feel obliged to say that perhaps the repercussions of any legal action should fall solely on those directly involved.”  
  
The answering quirk of Pike’s lips is entirely too knowing for Spock’s comfort.  “So noted.  You don’t need to worry; hopefully, he’s currently considering an alternative option, but in any case, your protege won’t have to worry about any legal ramifications.  But you might want to have a discussion with her about appropriate conduct while in uniform.  I have to say, Spock, I expected better of her.”  
  
“Indeed.  I shall be sure to do so, in addition to what I presume is the extensive lecture you are currently planning for the group as a whole.”  
  
“‘Extensive lecture’?”  Pike lifts an eyebrow at that.  “That wouldn’t happen to be a gibe at my rhetorical style, would it?”  
  
“If so, it was unintentional, I assure you.”  
  
“I’m sure it was.”  
  
“Sir, if I may ask . . .”  
  
Pike nods.  “Go ahead; don’t be shy.”  
  
“Shyness would be highly illogical,” Spock reminds him.  “You said that the civilian who was assaulted may be considering an ‘alternative option’.  What, precisely, did you mean by that?”  
  
“Nothing untoward, Spock,” Pike chuckles.  “No cause for concern.  I, ah.”  He clears his throat.  “I encouraged him to enlist.”  
  
Both of Spock’s eyebrows shoot up at that news.  “You encouraged the man involved in a violent physical altercation with several Academy cadets to enlist.  That is . . . an unorthodox recruitment choice, sir.”  
  
“There are some dark marks on his record, yes,” Pike admits.  “But nothing so bad that I don’t think he deserves a second chance with Starfleet, if he decides to take it.  The kid just fell off the rails at some point; it happens to the best of us.  If I recall, you didn’t always think you were bound for this, either.  Didn’t you say once that you’d originally planned to attend the VSA?”  
  
Spock tightens his emotional controls and merely nods.  “Indeed.  However—”  
  
“I’ve been doing this a few years now, Spock; I know what I’m doing.  I took a look at his records, his aptitudes before I talked to him.  They were . . .”  He shakes his head, lets out a small, surprised laugh.  “Off the chart.  Frankly, I haven’t seen anything like it in a long damn time.”  
  
Something starts to twist in Spock’s stomach.  He doesn’t know what it is; can’t know without examining it, but something very much like fear stops him from doing so.  Pieces, however, are falling together at an alarming rate.  
  
“The kid has potential, and even beyond that he has an absolute refusal to buckle under.  Starfleet needs more of that.”  
  
After all, how many young men of unparalleled brilliance can there be in Riverside, Iowa?  
  
“I’ll admit, he doesn’t quite know how to pick his battles yet.  But that’s what we’re for; once he gets some knowledge and discipline drilled into him, he could be a major asset to Starfleet.  To the Federation.”  
  
Spock doesn’t want to know.  Doesn’t want to ask.  
  
“You seem quite convinced of his capability, considering you can as yet know very little about him beyond the information in his file.”  
  
“Well, that’s not exactly all I know.  You know that I did my thesis on the _Kelvin_ assault.”  
  
Spock’s heart rate tries to rise; he manages to wrench it back under control.  
  
“George Kirk’s family has been based in Riverside for generations, and I’d heard that his wife and sons moved back there after he died, of course.  Even so, I was surprised when I found out that his youngest son not only still lives there, but seems to be a perfect fit for the fleet.”  Pike taps at something on his screen, most likely bringing up the file he’d referenced.  “Obviously, both of his parents were ‘Fleet officers.  Additionally, his class choices were tailor-selected for an applicant for most of his academic career.  It wasn’t until he was almost seventeen that things took a turn.  His grades dropped, attendance became spotty at best; that’s when his arrest record began, as well.”  
  
“Arrest record?”  Spock’s voice is steadier than he had expected, a fact for which he is incredibly thankful.  
  
“A few drunk and disorderlies, a couple counts of possession; a recent breaking-and-entering charge that got dropped fairly quickly.  No worse than I’ve seen from other recruits; better than I’ve seen from some, actually.”  He taps at his screen again.  “There are a couple here that . . . Well.”  He taps one more time.  “We’ll deal with that when it’s time.  Meanwhile, I have an increasingly inventive series of punishments to dream up for our group of wayward cadets.  Tell Number One to contact me when you two work out a date and time.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Pike out.”  
  
The video blinks out and Spock slowly pushes his chair back.  
  
Well.  
  
He can not afford to be distracted now, and recruitment is out of his purview, in any case.  There are a myriad of other things that require his attention.  Clearly, he realizes, sliding back up to the desk, he will need to take a long look at his schedule.  He must also obtain a list of Captain Pike’s commitments from Commander Robbins, to find a date and time when the three of them may meet.  In addition, he will have to schedule a sit-down with Cadet Uhura as per Pike’s request.  
  
That appointment, he must admit, will be no hardship.  Though he regrets the need to chastise her for any reason, he certainly has no objection to spending more time in her company.  Perhaps, he muses, he might soften the blow by also ascertaining her interest in becoming his teaching assistant for his advanced phonology course next term.  Her performance in his class had been remarkable, and he would be highly gratified if she were to accept his offer.  
  
If she does, of course, it will mean that he will once again, for all intents and purposes, be her instructor.  He does, as much as he is capable, regret that.  Though they were both too wise to act on it, her interest in him has been clear since they first met.  Spock, in return, finds her physically attractive and intellectually brilliant; additionally, in the eight months that they have known each other she has displayed significant knowledge, interest, and understanding of Vulcan culture.  
  
She would, Spock has thought more than once, be someone that he might consider as a potential partner if such a relationship were not prohibited.  
  
Interest aside, however, he is getting ahead of himself.  He has, after all, believed others to be equally suitable in the past.  Few have been able to accept the conditions of a relationship with him, once they became fully aware of his situation.  After his disastrous attempt at a relationship with a young botany student, Spock determined that he was unlikely to find the type of companionship he finds acceptable among Humans.  Though he understands and is willing to comply with a need for physical intimacy— _quite_ willing, on most occasions—the emotional intimacy that Ms. Kalomi had required is simply beyond his ability or inclination to provide.  
  
Cadet Uhura has proven to be both adaptable and insightful; it is possible that she might understand, even accept, the limitations of what he can offer.  For the time being, however, Spock believes that it would be best for both of them if their relationship remains purely professional.  
  
It is fortunate, he reflects as he pulls up the files he will need, that he has no pressing personal matters to attend to.  
  
He has a great deal of work to do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of friendly reminders! First: as of this upload, bidding is open for two more days in the auction to benefit AO3; if you want 10k more words of this fic, or of a prompt of your very own, check out my page and place a bid! Second: I invite you, as ever, to follow me on Tumblr if you would like to see me flip out about the new movie in real time, and/or have an interest in my random fan-attacks on a variety of subjects.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of what I had written before the Great Hard Drive Crash of 2012, the chapter that survived through the miracle of having already been sent off to be beta'd. ALL PRAISE TO TECHNOLOGY THAT ACTUALLY WORKS.

 

The sun is too goddamned bright. Jim is pretty sure it’s doing it on purpose.

 

Jim’s head is pounding as hard as his heart, and his mouth is as dry as dust. He’s been awake for close to twenty-four hours, drunk for almost twelve, and hung over for entirely too long. His face feels like one big bruise; his back is still aching from slamming into the floor, a table, and he thinks a wall at some point; and his stomach is churning from a horrible combination of morning-after nausea and nerves.

 

And none of that matters, because he’s more excited than he's been in longer than he cares to remember.

 

He wonders if he ought to be upset about how easy it’s been to walk away from his entire life. A letter with his rent-to-date to the landlord and a note sent to the Clarks; that was really all it took. There’s a part of him—a small, long-ago part—whispering that it shouldn’t be this simple. He smothers that voice with a quick burst of speed as he enters the shipyard. This is how he likes things, after all: fluid, changeable.

 

“Nice ride, man,” a passing engineer says as Jim kills the engine.

 

Jim hardly thinks before tossing him the keys. “It’s yours.”

 

After all, he’s lived his life with no strings for six years now, right?

 

Well, fuck that.

 

“Four years?” he smirks at a surprised, relieved-looking Pike. “I’ll do it in three.”

 

He figures it’s the most badass entrance anyone’s ever made—at least until he manages to walk head-first into the doorframe as he’s looking for a seat. Jim hopes the _clang_ doesn’t sound as loud to everyone else as it does inside his head. He sees a few people snickering as he ducks, rubbing at his forehead, and makes his way down the aisle. Well, he’s used to people laughing at him, anyway.

 

As he heads down the aisle, a pair of familiar battered faces catch his eye. Two of the assholes from last night, including the one who picked the fight to begin with, are glaring at him like he’s a Denebian slime devil. Based on the chastened and guilty looks on the other cadets’ faces, Jim’s willing to guess that Pike must’ve come down hard on the entire group after what happened. Excellent; he bets he’s going to make just _loads_ of new friends.

 

“At ease, gentlemen.” 

 

He tosses off a mocking salute along with the greeting. If he’s going to have enemies going into this ridiculous attempt at reformation, he might as well commit. Still, he’s glad that the first empty seat he finds is about as far from them as possible. Pike may have been willing to overlook the first infraction, but Jim gets the feeling that agreeing to sign up has given him way less slack. He can feel the two of them staring after him, clearly wondering what the hell he’s doing aboard a Starfleet shuttle.

 

Jim is starting to wonder that, too; he’s already feeling like a clueless rube. Pike had said this was the shuttle for new recruits, but almost every other person aboard is already in cadet reds. Which means that either everyone else has planned for this instead of stumbling into it the way he did, or the ‘Fleet is even harder up for recruits than he’d thought. So which is worse? Jim doesn’t know, but based on the looks he’s getting from some of the other passengers, he figures he’ll have plenty of alone time to ponder the question. 

 

In the meantime, he’ll be happy if he can just get his seatbelt on without looking like an idiot. The shuttle is old, and the belt is stiff with something Jim decides not to examine too closely. He fights the blessedly brief urge to crawl under his seat, feeling oddly thankful for a lifetime of experience in having strangers stare at him.

 

And one not-quite-a-stranger, he notes after a moment, breaking into a grin when he sees No-First-Name Uhura watching him try to struggle his way into the harness. She looks away, the very picture of aloof disdain, but not quickly enough for Jim to miss the way she had been smiling at him.

 

An interesting development, that. Maybe his introduction into polite society won’t be so lonely, after all.

 

“Never did get that first name,” he points out, and out of the corner of his eye he can see a new, wide smile spread across her face.

 

Oh yeah. He’s definitely going to enjoy going back to school.

 

“You need a doctor.”

 

“I _told_ you people, I don’t need a doctor. Damn it, I _am_ a doctor!”

 

Jim looks up at the sudden commotion to see a pretty, petite young officer in a grey uniform half-leading, half-towing a man out of what looks like a small closet. The man is protesting loudly as he goes, and Jim’s isn’t the only head that’s turned. 

 

“You need to get back to your seat,” the officer says. From her tone, Jim’s guessing it’s not the first time she’s said it.

 

“I had one!” Though he’s letting himself be hauled along, it’s clear that the man is genuinely distressed. “In the bathroom, with no windows—”

 

“You need to get back to your seat, _now_.”

 

“I suffer from aviophobia, which means fear of dying—”

 

“Sir—”

 

“—in something that flies!”

 

“—for your own safety, sit down, or else I’ll _make you_ sit down.”

 

For a moment, the tension between the two of them fills the whole shuttle. The man has a good foot on her, at least—a fact that doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She stares up at him unblinkingly, challenge clear on her face even from where Jim’s sitting, and though she barely comes up to this man’s shoulder she manages to give the impression that she’s towering over him.

 

The self-proclaimed aviophobe seems to feel the same way; one good look at her face has him nodding and heading for his seat, albeit with a scowl dark enough to make most people think twice about contradicting him.

 

“Fine.” 

 

He lowers himself into the only remaining available seat, the one that happens to be right next to Jim’s. Terrific.

 

“Thank you,” the officer says coolly, and heads for the front of the shuttle without another glance spared for either of them. Jim can’t help staring after her as she leaves.

 

He wonders what it would take for her to threaten to put _him_ down.

 

There’s a brief burst of static out of the speakers, then, “This is Captain Pike. We’ve been cleared for take-off.”

 

Nerves and excitement are twisting Jim’s stomach into knots, and apparently he’s not alone, because his new seatmate turns to him almost immediately.

 

“I may throw up on you,” he warns Jim frankly, and one look at his face is enough to see that he’s completely serious.

 

“I think these things are pretty safe.” 

 

There’s something familiar about this man, but the combination of Jim’s hangover and the smell of stale booze clinging to one or both of them is clouding his head. All Jim knows for sure is that he’s no one he’s seen around Riverside, which should mean he’s no one Jim’s actually met before. Probably he just has one of those faces. At least Jim’s not the only one in civilian clothes anymore.

 

“Don’t pander to me, kid,” the man bites out, struggling to secure his harness, and that nagging sense of familiarity grows stronger. “One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds. A solar flare might crop up, cook us in our seats!”

 

Jim glances around, hoping that no one else is noticing him sitting next to someone who sounds like a certified loon.

 

“And wait until you’re sitting pretty with a case of Andorian shingles,” the guy goes on, as though delivering the _coup de grace_ on a flawless argument. “See if you’re still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding.” He shakes his head, huffs out a heavy breath. “Space is disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence.”

 

“Well, I hate to break this to you, but Starfleet operates in space,” Jim points out. He glances over, expecting another bout of dire predictions, and is surprised to see the man staring grimly down at his lap.

 

“Yeah, well,” he says, nodding, “I got nowhere else to go. The ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce.” He lifts a small flask to his lips. “All I got left is my bones.”

 

No. No way.

 

“No fucking _way_.”

 

His outburst seems to startle the other man, who blinks and glances down at his flask. “Helps my nerves settle,” he starts, defensively, but Jim interrupts, staring wide-eyed at the scruffy stranger sitting next to him.

 

“ _Bones_?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I said, I . . .” Bloodshot hazel eyes focus abruptly, and the man’s jaw drops as wonder creeps over his face. “Holy shit. _Jimmy_?”

 

“Oh my god,” Jim laughs, reaching out to pull his friend into as much of a hug as their safety restraints allow. “Leonard McCoy. I can’t fucking believe it! Damn, man, I _knew_ you looked familiar!”

 

“Can’t say I thought the same,” Bones grins, leaning back to take in Jim’s appearance.

 

“Well, I _was_ ten years old the last time you saw me.”

 

The shuttle starts to shake as they begin their ascent, and Jim takes a steadying breath. Bones lifts an eyebrow at him, lifting the flask in a silent offering. Jim takes it gratefully and knocks back a swallow that burns its way down his throat. Just what he needed, he thinks: a little hair of the dog to take the edge off.

 

“Guess that’s true.” Bones raises his voice a little as he takes his flask back, lifting it in brief acknowledgement. “There’s also the fact that you look like crap. What, did you get into a fight with a Klingon or something?”

 

“Ah. No.” Jim coughs, feeling a little sheepish. “With some of these fine, upstanding young men, actually.”

 

“You’re kidding.” Bones’s grin turns to wide-eyed disbelief when Jim shakes his head. “What the hell? You can’t tell me a bunch of cadets were stupid enough to get into a brawl with an officer.”

 

“Officer?”

 

“Come on, kid,” Bones scoffs at Jim’s confusion, “you’re what, twenty-two now? You expect me to believe you’ve been in the ‘Fleet for five years and haven’t made officer yet? I figured you were on leave to visit your mom and just bumming a ride back to San Francisco.”

 

“Bones.” Jim glances away for a moment. “I haven’t been in the ‘Fleet. I’m a new recruit, same as you.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Bones is scowling now, an expression that makes Jim feel oddly nostalgic. “Starfleet used to be all you could talk about. Hell, you practically lived in that damned shipyard.”

 

“Yeah, well. I got a little bit . . . sidetracked.” 

 

There’s a sudden lurch as they break orbit and the artificial gravity goes online. Bones clutches instinctively at the pole separating their seats, his face going so green that for a moment Jim’s afraid he’s going to make good on his warning.

 

“Tell you what,” he says warily. “How about we go for a drink when we land? We can catch up then.”

 

Bones nods, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed closed.

 

“You okay?”

 

Another nod, and a deep breath drawn between his teeth, is Jim’s only answer.

 

“Try, ah . . . try to, I dunno, breathe through it?”

 

Bones’s eyes crack open just enough to glare at him, and Jim has to laugh. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes. Might as well rest a bit while he can.

 

 

********************************

 

 

“I still can’t believe this,” Bones snorts, tossing his duffel onto his bed beside the neat red square of his new uniform. “What the hell are the odds of the two of us getting assigned to the same room?”

 

“A lot better,” Jim grins from across the room, “when someone hacks the system and adjusts things a little bit.”

 

Bones turns to stare at him. “You _hacked the system_?”

 

“What can I say?” Jim drops backwards, bouncing a little when his back hits the mattress. “I didn’t make spare cash hustling poker by trusting the odds. I just . . .” He links his arms behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. “I thought it might be nice to have a familiar face around. That’s all.” He glances over at his friend. “If it really bothers you I can undo it. Should I switch things back?”

 

Bones huffs and drops onto the edge of his own bed, toeing off his shoes. “What if you get caught, huh?”

 

Jim sits up, grinning again because that wasn’t a yes. “Highly unlikely. I just put together an algorithm to shuffle all the names; the fact that we got paired up is, to all appearances, a total coincidence.”

 

“You know, sometime soon that overconfidence of yours is going to bite you in the ass.”

 

“Maybe. Guess I’d better make sure I enjoy myself until then. And speaking of enjoying myself.” He leaps up from the bed and kicks Bones’s shoes back over to him. “Put these back on. We’re going out.”

 

“Jim, do you understand that our prep squad begins _tomorrow_?”

 

“All the more reason to enjoy ourselves tonight. I’m not talking about a bender, Bones, just a couple of drinks between two old friends. Look.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know what I’m in for here, believe me. I’m trying to cram four years of training into three. So before I sacrifice my social life to Starfleet, I want to enjoy my last night of relative freedom, and I want to do that catching up with an old friend.”

 

Bones stares up at him for a moment. “Silver-tongued bastard,” he finally grouses, reaching for his shoes and jamming them back on. “Fine. Where are we going? Need I remind you that we both just got here? I wouldn’t even know where to find a bar.”

 

“Go out through the main gate, take a left, go three blocks then take a right.” Jim laughs at the look Bones shoots him. “Yeoman Alvison gave me a tip when she was finished with my paperwork.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Asked me to meet her there later.”

 

“Look, if you’re cruising for a hook-up—”

 

“I’m not. But it’s always flattering to be offered one, don’t you think?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Bones grumbles as he shrugs on his jacket. “Been too long for me to remember.”

 

“Ah.” They make their way out of the dorms, through the halls filled with excited, chattering new recruits and into the fresh, cool evening air. Jim casts a sidelong glance at the older man as they walk. “You mentioned something earlier about a divorce.”

 

“Yeah.” Bones shoves his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders around his ears. “We separated two years ago; the divorce was just finalized a few months back.”

 

“Took you for everything, huh?”

 

“Not my credits; not that there were much of them left to take.” He scowls down at the pavement. “But everything that mattered, yeah. Our friends all sided with her, which wasn’t really all that surprising since I’d turned into a pretty miserable bastard. Once the court awarded her full custody, there was really no reason to stay in Atlanta. My practice was pretty much in shambles anyway, so I closed it down and decided what the hell, might as well enlist. Better a quick, horrible death in space than a slow, worse one down here.”

 

“Damn. I’m sorry, Bones.” Jim isn’t sure quite what to say. “I didn’t know you had kids,” he finally manages, wincing at the words as they come out.

 

“One. A daughter; Joanna.” Bones reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a holochip. He runs his thumb over the top and the image of a young girl springs up, all gap-toothed smiles and flyaway hair as she holds an old-fashioned stuffed bear below her chin and laughs. “She’s six now; Jocelyn sent this right before I left. Said Jo just lost her first tooth.”

 

They’re passing a little grassy square of a park, and Jim steers them over to a nearby bench. “She’s cute.”

 

“I haven’t seen her in months. Won’t be able to see her again until our first break, if Jocelyn will even let me then.” He thumbs the chip again and the image disappears. “And you know the worst part?”

 

“What?”

 

Bones shakes his head. “It’s all my own damned fault.” He tucks the chip back in his pocket and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I couldn’t handle things, and I let it all just fall apart. No damn wonder she left me.”

 

Jim stares out across the park with him. It’s nearly empty now, with the sun all but set. “You’re not pissed at her for leaving?”

 

“No. Don’t get me wrong, I was at first. Crawled into a bottle and didn’t come back out for about a week. Tore my apartment to pieces, picked up the phone a dozen times to scream at her but never actually called.” He glances over with a wry smile. “Decided I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.” He snorts. “Who the hell knows? Maybe we could’ve fixed things if I hadn’t been such a damned stubborn fool.”

 

Jim’s stomach twists. “She hurt you.”

 

“Yeah, well. I hurt her right back. I doubt we could’ve held it together any longer, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, we loved each other.” Bones sits up with a sigh. “Hell, I still love her. But the two of us . . . we never really made sense, you know what I mean?”

 

“Yeah.” Jim swallows heavily. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“I thought you might.” Bones glances over. “I couldn’t help noticing that you haven’t mentioned Spock even once.”

 

Jim laughs, and winces when the sound comes out small and bitter. “No,” he says, “I don’t. Not if I can help it.”

 

Bones turns to fix him with an unwavering gaze. “What happened?”

 

“We . . .” Jim glances up at the darkening sky. “I guess we never really made sense, either. It came down to a choice between me and . . . anyway.” He shrugs. “He didn’t choose me. He was never going to, it turns out. Finding out that way, I dunno. I just couldn’t handle it. It felt like . . . like having gravity suddenly turned off on me. Everything I’d always thought about myself was suddenly suspect.”

 

“That’s why you didn’t join Starfleet.” It’s not really a question, but Jim nods anyway.

 

“All my life, I thought that the ‘Fleet was for a certain kind of person. The kind of person my dad was,” he admits. “When I stopped thinking I could be like him, I stopped thinking of Starfleet as an option. And that had been my whole plan for my life. Without it, I just . . . didn’t know what to do.”

 

“So why now? After all these years, here you are.”

 

Jim looks over at his friend. “I guess I just got sick of defining myself based on something that happened when I was sixteen. I never stopped thinking about Starfleet; never stopped wishing I was here instead of stuck back in Riverside. So here I am.” He shrugs again, spreads his arms and grins. “Ready to become the youngest captain in ‘Fleet history.”

 

“And as humble as ever,” Bones snorts. “Come on, let’s go get that drink already.”

 

“Actually,” Jim says as they stand, “let’s just head back. We can grab a drink another time. We want to be rested for our first day of prep squad, don’t we?”

 

“My god, Jim!” Bones staggers backwards in mock surprise. “Is that _maturity_ you’re displaying?”

 

“Don’t get used to it. I’ll probably get sick of it in a month, but in the meantime I’m gonna make sure to wreck the curve for everyone else.”

 

“There’s the brat I remember.” Bones catches him around the shoulders, dragging him along back the way they came. “Okay, now that we’ve both bared our souls, give me some gossip. How the hell did you get into a fight with Academy cadets?”

 

“How else?” Jim twists until he manages to pull out of Bones’s grasp, laughing. “A girl.”

 

“Should’ve seen that coming. You make a move on someone else’s girl, Jimmy?”

 

“No,” Jim says sharply, his laughter dying in his throat. “I don’t do that.”

 

“Okay, sorry.” Bones throws him a sidelong glance. “Just a joke.”

 

“Yeah.” They walk in silence for a moment before Jim jerks his shoulders. “She wasn’t anyone’s girl; she was just another cadet. They didn’t look too fondly on the townie trying to get her into bed.”

 

“So you let them rearrange your face for you.”

 

“It wasn’t really a matter of _let_ ,” Jim points out. “It was four on one.”

 

Bones snorts again. “Jim, all your life you’ve been able to talk anyone into anything you wanted. If there was a fight, it was because you wanted one.”

 

“You know, people _do_ tend to change a little bit between ten and twenty-two.”

 

“Have you?”

 

Jim grinds his teeth for a moment before he gives in. “All right. Maybe I just . . . didn’t dissuade it.”

 

“You’re a little twisted, you know that?”

 

“I’ve become aware, yeah.”

 

“So you chose a bloody brawl over a pretty girl?”

 

“They both served the same purpose. Not that I wouldn’t have preferred the girl, but the brawl was appealing in its immediacy.”

 

They’re back at the dorms already, and they pause to scan the ID cards they were issued that afternoon. The doors unlock and a wave of sound hits them; the other recruits are still up and loitering in the hallways, and a scattering of red-clad cadets have filtered out as well.

 

“I didn’t understand a word of that,” Bones says as they work their way through the laughing, chattering groups.

 

“It was sort of a tradition of mine. Every year, when the cadets came to check out the shipyard, I’d find at least one of them willing to go slumming.”

 

“That part I get. What I _don’t_ understand is why you gave that up for the sake of getting your face rearranged.”

 

“In the end, they’re both the same. Either way, for a little while you’ve dragged them down to your level.” Jim shrugs, reaching their door and palming the security pad. “One choice just has sex first.”

 

Bones staring after him as they enter the room, and Jim has to look away from the dismayed concern he sees there.

 

“What the hell did he do to you?” the older man asks softly.

 

“Nothing worse than what I did to him, probably. Like you said: they hurt you, and you hurt them right back.” Jim shrugs out of his jacket. “People just suck. Especially when they’re in love.”

 

“Are you still?”

 

Jim turns away, shaking out his uniform to hang in the closet. “I think I’m gonna turn in early.” He strips off the rest of his clothes and grabs a towel from the top shelf, slinging it around his waist. “Gonna shower first, if that’s okay with you.”

 

There’s a heavy sigh behind him. “Sure, Jim,” Bones says. “Big day tomorrow, after all.”

 

The bathroom is equipped with sonics; not exactly ideal after a hangover and close to forty hours with no sleep, but it’s what he’s stuck with while he’s here. Jim takes his time, pleased to see that the Academy has provided most of the things he hadn’t bothered to pack. Basic toiletries are lined up neatly next to the sink; his uniform had been given to him once his enrollment fee had cleared; all he needs to worry about now is passing his test to get admitted into the program for officer training.

 

Bones doesn’t say anything when Jim comes back out, just nods as they pass on Bones’s way into the bathroom. By the time he's finished washing up Jim is already faking sleep; minutes after that the light is out, and the older man’s heavy, rhythmic breathing echoes throughout the room.

 

Jim sits up, reaching into the pocket of the jeans he’s tossed at the foot of his bed. The holochip he pulls out fits snugly in his palm, and for a moment he simply holds it there. Then his thumb bends to brush across the surface, and his bed is lit with a ghostly glow as a miniature figure throws a pitch that nearly sends him toppling over.

 

It’s time to let go of the past, he reminds himself. There’s a waste basket next to the bed; he can see it in the faint light.

 

The ‘chip clicks softly as it hits the bottom of his nightstand drawer, which he closes as quietly as he can; he doesn’t want to wake Bones, after all.

 

Jim lies in bed for some time after that, watching the afterimage play before his eyes, and waiting for sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

> A couple of friendly reminders! First: as of this upload, bidding is open for two more days in [the auction to benefit AO3](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/ladyblahblah); if you want 10k more words of this fic, or of a prompt of your very own, check out my page and place a bid! Second: I invite you, as ever, to follow me [on Tumblr](hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com) if you would like to see me flip out about the new movie in real time, and/or have an interest in my random fan-attacks on a variety of subjects.


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